


i n t o x i c a t e d

by hyacinthsfics



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: It's not explicit though, M/M, SemiShira - Freeform, mentions of alcohol use, mentions of nsfw, one sided ushishira, pining shirabu, shirabu really doesn't know how to love people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 06:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14868558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinthsfics/pseuds/hyacinthsfics
Summary: kenjirou's chest swells and he knows he had one drink, but he's so high on whatever he's feeling and it's euphoric. he wants more, he just wants to feel whatever he's feeling over and over and over again.





	i n t o x i c a t e d

**Author's Note:**

> ha this fic is edgy

There isn't a single second of the day that Kenjirou doesn't think about Wakatoshi. He sees visions of him sear in his eyelids when he closes his eyes, he smells him in the red oak trees that he passes every morning on his way to school, he tastes him in the scent of the morning dew. He showers with the thought that he wants Wakatoshi to _touch_ him, he sleeps with the thought that he wants Wakatoshi _next_ to him. He dreams of fantasies that Wakatoshi is with him and _touching_ him and _holding_ him and _looking_ at him with the same longing Kenjirou harbors for him. And then Kenjirou awakes to a cold bed and a cold sweat and he feels empty.

Kenjirou never wanted this - he just wanted to fly through high school and get good grades and do well in volleyball and get a scholarship to a good college and succeed. Yet he ended up with so much more than he bargained for: brokenness, aching, longing, yearning. Being in love with his senior was never what Kenjirou wanted for himself, especially not _now_.

It's two weeks until graduation. And Kenjirou's steps weigh heavy with the realization that Wakatoshi will be gone and Kenjirou will be more empty than when he began loving him. His mind screams at him, " _Just tell him, you dumbass_!" but he knows it's fruitless and nothing will blossom of the conversation, it is not a flower, it is a sterile seed.

The hallways bore Kenjirou, and his classes even more so. The only thing he begins to look forward to is practice, where he sees Wakatoshi in all of his strength and glory in the place he feels most at home. It's sacred. To Kenjirou, nothing is sweeter than sharing Wakatoshi's air in their _favorite_ place, and nothing is as bittersweet as knowing Wakatoshi isn't _his_. He'd like to blame the aching in his heart on the intense running regime, but he can't even bring himself to. He can't even make a jab at Tsutomu, who's goofing off with Satori again, he can't even scoff and roll his eyes at Eita, who fixes him with a hot glare every time their eyes meet. He's just so _tired_.

And when the gym is clean and empty, and Kenjirou walks home alongside Reon and Yamagata, he feels empty again, like Wakatoshi had made flowers bloom in his chest, and now that he is gone, the flowers are too. Yet Kenjirou feels as if he can't breathe.

"Are you alright, Shirabu-san? You look pale," Reon asks, ever so caring in the way Reon was, and it sickens Kenjirou, strikes him to his core. He doesn't deserve the kindness.

"I'm fine," he chokes out, tears stinging his eyes as he clenches his hands into fists and digs his nails into his palms.

"Kenjirou, we-"

"I'm fine!" he bursts, ripping his shoulder away from Yamagata's reaching embrace of comfort. "Shit," he whispers, wiping his puffy eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry, I-"

"It's okay, Shirabu-san. Let's get you home," Reon offers, and though Kenjirou knows he doesn't deserve the presence of friendship, he allows himself to feel wanted anyway - if only for a few moments.

✿✿✿

Kenjirou is often alone at home, as his father is out of the picture and his mother is always away on business trips - or that's what she likes to call them. Kenjirou knows they're hook ups with rich men that will help her forward her career; he knows he should have half the mind to be angry, but she's doing her best to get to the top, and Kenjirou's a fan of that philosophy. Kenjirou shuts and locks the door and throws a look to the third cabinet to the left. Tonight _had_ to be one of those nights. He sighs and drops his volleyball and book bag and makes way to the kitchen, opening that third cabinet and pulling out a half-drunk bottle of whiskey. It's color is as intoxicating as it's contents, and Kenjirou closes his eyes, his mind whispers, " _Wakatoshi's eyes are that color,_ " and his world shatters to his feet as he hurriedly opens the bottle and takes a burning hot swig. It hurts, god does it hurt, but it feels _so good._

A series of knocks yanks Kenjirou out of his thoughts and he hurriedly puts the bottle back and pops a mint in his mouth as he makes way to the door and opens it, shock freezing his senses as he realizes who it is.

"You probably don't wanna see me, and that's very understandable," Semi Eita says, wringing his long, lithe fingers anxiously as he awaits Kenjirou's reaction. "But I saw what happened earlier and I...well, I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

"Come in," Kenjirou's words tumble from his mouth before he realizes it's what he wants to say. Eita's eyebrows raise in surprise, and Kenjirou rolls his eyes. "Before I change my mind."

Eita hurries in and stuffs his hands into his pockets, and Kenjirou almost feels disheartened that he can't watch those fingers dance against each other. Only then does he realize Eita's saying something and he missed it.

"Shirabu-san?"

"Kenjirou."

"What?" Eita asks, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"Call me Kenjirou. Forget the honorifics, too." Kenjirou leads Eita to the living room and sits on the couch, motioning for Eita to sit as well.

"Oh, I can't stay for long-"

"It's a Friday night," Kenjirou tests, and he basks in the challenging look that flits across Eita's eyes. Eita's whiskey eyes. Eita sits and crosses his legs, breaking eye contact with Kenjirou and for some goddamn reason, _Kenjirou wants Eita to look at him again_.

"Are you okay, Kenjirou? From earlier?" the blonde asks, his eyes never lifting from his nails, which he studies tediously, intentionally.

"It's been an emotional week," Kenjirou admits, not missing the glance Eita gives him from the corner of his eye. "With the third year's leaving and all, and getting over our defeat, it hasn't really been easy."

"You're upset we're leaving?" Eita asks in surprise, his eyebrows raising, yet he never lifts his eyes to meet Kenjirou's gaze - which he knows has grown intense and Kenjirou isn't even intoxicated but he feels like he is.

"Of course, I've learned a lot from you," Kenjirou says, his mind no longer in control of his mouth. Eita scoffs.

"Please, you watched me play, what, three times? I barely set all year."

"You taught me how to be a bad fucking sport," Kenjirou sarcastically replies, yet his steely exterior falls soon after. "My first year, I watched the way you set, and I saw the way Ushijima-senpai reacted to you and I wanted that," he admits. "I wanted to connect with a spiker the way you do, I was never taught that. I had to learn from you."

"Well, I'm flattered," Eita murmurs, studying his nails once again. Kenjirou's chest swells and he knows he had one drink, but he's so high on whatever he's feeling and it's euphoric. He wants more, he just wants to feel whatever he's feeling over and over and over again. "I should get going-"

"Semi-senpai," Kenjirou calls, and Eita stops getting up from the couch.

"Eita is fine." Kenjirou watches him swallow and avoid meeting Kenjirou's eyes and something in Kenjirou's chest catches aflame and he finds himself desperate.

"Eita." The name feels good on his tongue, and part of his mind tells him that he hates Eita, he's never liked him, he's always been kind of a brat, but he can't stop yearning for those long fingers to touch him. "Why won't you look at me?"

Eita's gaze is regretful as it flits to him.

"You already know," Eita admits, defeat blooming in his voice.

"Why did you _really_ come to my house? You could've just called if you were worrying about me." Kenjirou inches closer to Eita, watching whiskey eyes flit to Kenjirou's lips, then back to his eyes.

"You know that too," Eita whispers. "Have you always known?"

"No," Kenjirou murmurs. "And I don't know as much as you think I do. I just know that I feel really..." Kenjirou searches for the word. "Intoxicated. And not from alcohol."

"That was surprisingly intimate," Eita's voice falls an octave and Kenjirou shivers.

"Good," he whispers, and against his better judgement, he leans forward, sharing Eita's air. It is intimate, Kenjirou has to admit, loving the way Eita's eyes are hooded and dark, and knowing he looks the exact same. Eita's hand reaches up and cups Kenjirou's cheek, his thumb separating Kenjirou's lips so Eita's can slip in between them, and Kenjirou knows he should crumble for better reasons, but Eita pushes him down on the plush sofa, their lips still interlocked. And Kenjirou's mind whispers, " _Wakatoshi_ ," but Eita's hands push the clothes off of his body and the thought from his mind.

✿✿✿

Kenjirou continues to run in circles. In his dreams, he feels, smells, tastes Wakatoshi, on his hands, his hips, his tongue. Yet when he awakes, the arm of a bleach blonde is draped over him and though Kenjirou harbors some sort of infatuation with Eita, it is nothing compared to the love he suffers for Wakatoshi. When Kenjirou is alone with Eita, the only things he can feel are Eita's hands searing across his skin, Eita's breath draping across his ears, yet when the silence of Eita's absence ensues, Kenjirou only thinks of Wakatoshi and how he wishes Wakatoshi's scent was on his pillowcase.

At school, it's worse. Eita will pull him aside into a broom closet and kiss him until his lungs burn, and Kenjirou will feel intoxicated for a few moments, before the feeling fades like Eita's taste on his tongue. He feels hopeless, his world is spinning and he doesn't know how to make it stop. The only numbing power he has is to drink himself silly when he finds himself alone. And Kenjirou knows that is no way to cope, but it is the only way he knows how.

He briefly thinks he's lucky practice has ended - being in the gym with both Wakatoshi and Eita might prove to be fatal - and he instantly regrets it. He misses watching Wakatoshi's back muscles tense and relax with each spike, and seeing the sweat disappear below his shirt collar, wishing it was his lips instead.

Yet when he passes the gym and it's startlingly empty, hands push his shoulders into the wall and soft, familiar lips press desperately against his. The breath is sucked from Kenjirou's lungs, and he can do nothing but kiss back and card his fingers through bleach blonde curls; his previous thoughts are erased within a second as Eita's intoxicating cologne invades Kenjirou's senses.

"God, I could get lost in kissing you," Eita whispers against his lips as they share each other's breaths. "You never fail to stun me, Kenjirou."

Kenjirou's knees are weak, and he's lucky Eita's hands are on his hips, or else he would have fallen to the ground in a puddle. His tongue presses the words, "I feel the same," against his lips, but his voice does not cooperate. Instead, he assaults those lips he's memorized now, and sucks the breath out of Eita's lungs this time. And he feels powerful, and when Eita walks him home and kisses him on his doorstep, he feels on top of the world.

And when he's sitting on the shower floor, alone and cold despite the hot water, he feels guilty and aches with the yearning for Wakatoshi's touch.

✿✿✿

Eita appears at his doorstep three days later with flowers, a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses, and Kenjirou has half the mind to scoff, and half the mind to kiss the smug smile off of Eita's face.

"Do you like them?" Eita asks and hands them to Kenjirou, who accepts them gratefully and replaces the wilted lillies in the vase by the door with them. Eita enters his home, and Kenjirou instantly pushes him to the couch, ever so desperate to feel Eita's hands on him. "I actually came to talk to you about something." Kenjirou's lips, instead, press to Eita's pulse, and attempt to suck a mark there. "Kenjirou...please."

Kenjirou pulls away and stares deeply into Eita's eyes - they aren't hesitant or frightened, but rather sure and, against Kenjirou's better judgement, full of admiration.

"I'm listening," Kenjirou murmurs, and he wishes he wasn't so dizzied by Eita's scent, because Eita's lips are moving and he's saying something but Kenjirou cannot focus on it.

"Kenjirou?"

Kenjirou blinks and takes a deep breath.

"Say that again," he requests.

"We've been doing this thing between us for a while now, whatever you wanna call it, and God, Kenjirou, I'm just...so head over heels for you. Everything about you completely dizzies me and I've never felt anything like it, all I know is I wanna keep feeling it. Kenjirou...I want you to be mine."

Kenjirou's mind short circuits and his world crashes to his feet. Visions of Wakatoshi sear across his eyelids, and he thinks that he should be on top of Wakatoshi, not Eita. He jumps back and stands, his eyebrows furrowing. What was he thinking? Guilt floods his bones and he just wants to run.

"Are you okay?"

"We can't," Kenjirou cuts harshly, watching Eita's eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"I don't understand, we...I...you've had sex with me about a dozen times, we kiss all the time, we practically act like we're dating, I-"

"I can't," Kenjirou snarls and watches as something inside Eita shatters.

"So what was this?! A hook-up? A useless fuck? What was I to you?! Because I, for some goddamn reason, thought you cared about me, or-or something, I just thought-"

"I only used you to forget about my feelings for Ushijima-senpai," Kenjirou admits, and though he desperately wants to take his words back, they've already been said and Eita has already heard and processed them. And guilt, though Kenjirou has felt it before, swims in his blood and his mind and makes his fingertips numb. Eita's eyes are red, and though no tear streaks mark his cheeks, Kenjirou knows he's on the brink.

"You're a fucking prick," he whispers, and leaves Kenjirou in the living room. When he exits the house, he slams the door so hard, it rattles the table by the door and knocks the vase of pretty yellow flowers to the ground. And _how fitting_ , Kenjirou bitterly thinks, though he knows good and well the fault is on his shoulders alone.

✿✿✿

Kenjirou's nights are the loneliest they've ever been, though his mother has been near-absent his entire life, nothing compares to the emptiness he feels when the scent of Eita no longer lingers on his sheets or pillowcase. He lies awake most nights, hand against the pillow opposite of him, thumb stroking the silk as if it were Eita's soft cheek, tangling himself in thick, warm sheets so as to mimic the feeling of having a body against his. His chest aches when he breathes, and every instance in which he closes his eyes for more than a second, Eita's whiskey eyes drown Kenjirou's thoughts. There's a desperation that comes when Kenjirou opens a whiskey bottle and stares at the color of its content, before swallowing heaps of it as if it would bring him closer to Eita.

He knows Eita has moved on; the winter begins to frost the inside of Kenjirou's chest rather than the outside of his home. Just a month ago, Eita would've slipped his legs between Kenjirou's and wrapped his strong arms around him, and Kenjirou would have taken advantage of the softness in his touch and the admiration in his eyes and pressed a deep kiss to his lips, hoping to achieve something more. What Kenjirou had failed to realize, though, was he would soon ache for those mellow times when Eita's calloused fingertips drew figures on his shirtless back and Eita's pink lips would turn up in a gentle smile.

Now, however, Kenjirou is aimlessly watching the city lights pass in blurs of blue, green, and white as his knees shake from the rattle of the bus on the asphalt. The night is young, and the lingering groups of people scattered against the city shops and restaurants sends Kenjirou into a reminiscent spiral of memories he's made with the third years and his eyelids flutter shut - Satori's flaming red hair and his improvised songs, Wakatoshi's big hands and his few words, Yamagata's soft brown eyes and the nights he'd spend helping Kenjirou with his English homework, Reon's comforting hugs and his patience towards Tsutomu.

Then, despite himself, he begins to think about Eita.

Eita's hands and his serves and his sets and his eyes and his dedication and determination, and the soft, adoring smile he saved just for Kenjirou. His thumb tracing across Kenjirou's cheekbone. His warm arms. His soft lips pressing a chaste kiss to Kenjirou's forehead. His warm breath whispering sweet words against Kenjirou's ears. Suddenly, everything Kenjirou adored about Wakatoshi seems dull and monochrome in contrast to Eita's kaleidoscope of attributes. Kenjirou's eyes pop open as realization dawns upon him. He misses Eita and he loves him. With every fiber of his goddamn being, Kenjirou _loves_ Eita. He jumps up from his seat.

"Stop!" he cries. "Stop the bus!"

The bus pulls into a shoulder lane and Kenjirou instantly runs to the front, throwing a half-hearted apology at the bus driver, which is lost behind him as he exits and begins running. Kenjirou doesn't have a clue what's in the direction he's running, but he desperately follows his gut, which tugs him through large groups of teenagers and drunk adults, and between alleyways and around buildings. His feet ache when he reaches the Cherry Blossom Bridge, and he would take a moment to bask in its beauty coated in silver moonlight, but what awaits him is far more beautiful. He recognizes where he is now, and he knows who's only yards away, sitting in an apartment building that overlooks the Cherry Blossom River, which fills with cherry blossom petals every birth of spring.

As he notices the porch light is on in apartment 183, he sprints to the door and quickly layers a series of knocks on the deep red wood, his lungs aching as he desperately sucks cool night air in to soothe them. There's whispers behind the door, but Kenjirou can't force himself to pay them any mind when the door opens and a pair of soft, whiskey eyes meet his. And Kenjirou's heart shatters and mends all over again when Eita breathes his name.

"Eita," Kenjirou gasps out. "I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry for what I said to you, I was just caught up in my feelings for Wakatoshi, but I've realized now that the way you make me feel is nothing compared to what I felt for him, and I miss you so fucking much." By now, Kenjirou's mouth spills his thoughts without a dam, and his eyes spill his tears down his cheeks. "And I'm so fucking cold without you, Eita, everything is dull and lifeless and-and-" A sob slips from Kenjirou's lips and his bottom lip shakes. "I'm just so fucking _sorry_ ," he whimpers.

He wishes - desperately desires - that he could read the expression splayed across Eita's face; it's a miscellany of various emotions, yet it looks somewhat stoic. Kenjirou's heart drops when Eita's lips don't move with a reply.

"I ran here from the city, I was on a bus and I couldn't stop thinking about you and everything we did, and as I was sitting there, I realized I was so desperately, achingly in love with you." Kenjirou sucks in a breath. "I'm in love with you, Semi Eita."

Eita's eyes flicker behind him, and he heaves a sigh, of which Kenjirou catches the scent of wine on his breath. He hopelessly wishes to chase that scent until his lips are against Eita's and his tongue is tasting the alcohol.

" _Please_ ," Kenjirou chokes out, clenching his hands into fists so hard, his knuckles pale to a bright white.

Eita inhales, then exhales deeply, stepping back from the door so Kenjirou can get a peek inside. Tsutomu, Kenjirou's junior, is sitting on the couch, black hair tousled and lips swollen and pink. Kenjirou's heart drops to his stomach and he feels as if the world shatters around him; suddenly, everything falls apart once more, and _he can't breathe_. He stumbles back from the door a few steps, before completely turning his back and doing what he knows best: running away. He faintly recalls Eita calling his name, begging him to wait, but he's already charging for Cherry Blossom Bridge, desperately hoping the wind blowing past his ears could displace the world around him. He could forget. About Eita, about Wakatoshi, about Tsutomu, about the way his heart bloomed in his chest when he imagined Eita, about the way it shattered when his eyes made contact with Tsutomu's. All of that can disappear, if Kenjirou tries hard enough and consumes enough hard liquor.

Suddenly, a hand grabs his shoulder and forces him to turn around. He clenches his eyes shut, knowing if he opens them, his world will just fracture again and he will be left empty and alone.

"Kenjirou," Eita whispers. "Look at me."

Kenjirou shakes his head and attempts to pull back from Eita's embrace.

"Kenjirou, pl-"

"No!" Kenjirou cries, trying desperately to push Eita away from him. "No!" He pushes harder, and instead of Eita stepping away from him, he comes closer and wraps his arms around Kenjirou's quivering body, pulling the dirty blonde to his chest. Kenjirou's tongue presses the word, "no," against his lips, but he doesn't speak it, instead melting into Eita's embrace as a sob leaves his lips. "I'm sorry," he cries. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"I forgive you, Kenjirou," Eita whispers into his ear, holding him closer. "I forgive you. It's okay."

"I miss you," Kenjirou sniffles, "so much. Beyond words, I-I can't describe it-"

"You don't have to," Eita assures him. "Tsutomu's leaving, you can come inside for some hot tea if you'd like."

"Please," Kenjirou whispers, feeling Eita nod and help him up. When their eyes meet, Kenjirou's world is stitched back together again, piece by piece. His bottom lip quivers as another apology is on the tip of his tongue, but Eita's hands grasp his cheeks and their lips touch, gentle, the gentlest Kenjirou has ever been touched. And for once, Kenjirou doesn't desire to press Eita to the bed sheets. The thought doesn't even cross his mind - only the idea passing that this is the first time he's ever felt such an intense form of infatuation. It is rooted so deeply within Kenjirou's mind that his chest fills to its brim with adoration and absolute reverence.

And later that night, with the past events long forgotten in Kenjirou's mind, he kisses Eita slow and light; he is then comfortably drifted into a dream by Eita's soft hands tracing his body, and Eita's gentle voice searing soft, endearing words into his mind, until it is all he can think when he lets go of his last thread of consciousness.


End file.
